


The Constants Of Curiousity

by WhoreLenore



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: 1stPOV, Artist!Gerard - Freeform, Frerard, M/M, Paris (City), homeless!frank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 14:34:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoreLenore/pseuds/WhoreLenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When we live in a world so full of wrongs, it can be hard for things to be right"</p><p>Gerard Way, a twenty-one year old artist, finds himself seemingly detached from the rest of the world. Alone in a city bustling with people. After a startling relevation he vows to make if but a tiny difference in the world. His life is changed by a seventeen year old homless busker, Frank Iero, who teaches him how to smile, how to hear the beat of butterfly wings and enjoy the simple things in life that everyone seems to forget about.</p><p>*Less cliche than it actually sounds*</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Constants Of Curiousity

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this is my first story on AO3, so I would like people to be fucking honest. Everyone on here is so talented and I would hate to just be embarrassing myself with my shit. Anyway thank you to EmJay, for the amazing beta-tastic support. Please enjoy. If all goes to plan then I will update every second Wednesday.
> 
> WhoreLenore xx

The Constants of Curiosity.

Chapter One:

I squeeze my eyes shut, clamping them tightly together. I clench my jaw and bite my lip and for a moment, I am falling. Wind rushes by my ears, whispering that of what was never to be said. Across the dotted horizon, the setting sun streaks the tainted sky; staining it pink, orange and yellow. The early stars poking their heads out to watch down upon the contaminated, claustrophobic hunk of star dust that is the Earth. I peel my eyelids open, silently begging to gaze upon what the stars do. Instead, I glance over a rotten, polluted mess rife with disease and dishonour. The grimy paths of injustice and distress only barely illuminated by false hope and deceitful promises.

A soft breath hums its way through my pursed lips, delicate hands gliding their way over the canvas. Harsh, dark lines carving their way out of my locked box brain to bleed out into a slip of reds, blacks and greys. My heart, my soul, my life and my very breath staining the white canvas, guided by shaking hands.

As I lose myself in my work, bitter rays of pale sunlight peek through the French doors joining my paint splattered, charcoal-tainted cluttered studio to the vaguely unkempt balcony that has been finely dusted with the first blessings of morning. Outside, cars hum, birds carol bittersweet melodies and I focus on breathing.

The sun continues to rise, bearing the sour taste of hopelessness; a near-constant reminder of a world plagued with viscous people whom I would rather not have to interact with. The barren Bluebell sways in the lonesome silence of the early morning, strewing the last of its withering petals. The subtle sounds of commune thought to be the only thing to break this lonely silence; but as I hear those below me chatting and laughing, it makes me feel as though I could not be any more alone.

After a few more hours of bleeding concepts and paint splattered woes, I feel the distinct tug of addiction being yanked to the forefront of my mind. No longer able to work without satisfying the cravings for both nicotine and caffeine, I begin to ready myself for a venture out into the bland streets, choked-up with boredom and haphazard attempts at joy.

I wipe my hands on the scratchy material of my tartan pyjama pants, dragging myself away from my work in order to waltz down the bookshelf-clad hallway. Morrissey’s beautiful, effortless voice wrapping me up in a warm blanket of halfway smiles and almost-giggles to the tune of Asleep. As I reach the open door of my bedroom, I am met with poster-adorned walls and glittery fairy lights which have been strung carelessly across the room, every surface littered with dirty clothes and battered paperbacks.

I find myself drawn to the slightly-grubby ensuite mirror, wishing to meet the gaze of a beautiful, charismatic artist who knows how to smile. 

Once again, I am disappointed. I see a mass of tangled, greasy, midnight locks that tumble freely over chubby cheeks and stolen eyes. Lead by tired irises, I scramble to fix my appearance - I flatten hair, coax kohl around waterlines and scrub feverishly at dainty teeth.

Sashaying through the cluttered room, I slip easily into a small dance - a dance of shy, shaking hips and nervous, stumbling feet, but nevertheless; a tiny barely-there smile graces my features.

 

Easing on a pair of faded black skinny jeans, I quickly match them with a simple, long-sleeved white button-down. I subconsciously sway my hips in time with the music as my hands glide through the top drawer of my dresser, from which I select a slim black tie and old waist coat that appears to be missing a button. Soon enough, my own voice joins Morrissey’s in an almost-perfect melody. I let myself indulge in the music, offering a short but sweet moment of escape. 

 

The hum of an introverted boy persuades itself to bubble from my lips as I traipse down the hall, stopping only to tug on my scruffy Converse, slip on my black military-style trench coat; which is laced with brass buttons and wrap my fraying navy scarf around my slender, lily neck. I decide against the apartments’ elevator and instead pace down the creaking, spiral staircase until I am released into the flock of rushing, bustling people. 

 

I take a deep breath, breathing in Paris; cigarettes, fresh bread, and oh-so bitter black coffee.

 

I yank the door shut a little harder than intended and begin slouching my way down the street, my feet moving in nothing more than an awkward shuffle as I meander down the cracking footpath. Converse-clad feet slap at the worn concrete, Nicotine gum is chewed, strangers are bumped into. The day has the same dreary feeling as every other day. 

 

The mundane buzz of society is comforting. I pace down Rue Delessuex, head hung low with sweaty hands shoved deep into pockets. The sun that is beating down on the path seems to be nothing more than an illusion as the cold winter's wind whips mercilessly at my ivory cheeks. I glide easily unnoticed down the eccentric, grimy sidewalk, hearing nothing other than my own heartbeat thumping wildly in my ears until I reach my destination - L’Autre Café.

 

The instant smell of coffee assaults my senses as I wrench the door open and step into the homey warmth of the café; the familiar fragrance offering me a small moment of delight as I am called up to the counter. Sweets and biscuits line the front bench, which is decorated with old-fashioned photographs of happy couples and smiling children.

 

“Que désirez-vous, monsieur?” the rather expressionless blonde woman from behind the counter asks, wishing for me to tell her my order. Her hands don't seem to match the rest of her - old and withered with bitten-down nails clashing obscenely against her tiny, appealing waist and fresh coat of glossy lipstick.

 

“Un café, s'il vous plait,” I mumble, ordering my usual of straight black coffee. Fumbling for a moment with the money, I wrench my gaze from her mismatched hands. Her hands are cold as we exchange Euros for bitter-sweet liquid, almost as if they are the only crack in her otherwise flawless façade.

“Merci,” I tack on a simple thank you before retreating to the single table which stands quietly and vacantly near to the very back of the lively, overcrowded shop.

The table is clean - though rarely used - as I perch myself upon the slightly wobbly chair. I take a long gulp of my drink, savouring the burn as the near-boiling liquid travels down my throat. I watch the other patrons in the coffee shop; women teeter about precariously on expensive-looking heels, men make sad attempts to seduce such women and children run amuck, knocking over tables, chairs and even other customers in the process.

A couple sat in the far corner near to the sunlight-littered window gaze lovingly at each other. The woman traces patterns across the man’s forearm and a smirk (which is not one of lust nor playful aptitude) spreads across her warm, welcoming features. They share secret words and glances of adoration. The familiar painful tug of scratchy, bitter loneliness groans throughout my broken rib cage, beating sorrowfully in time with my bruised heart.

My cup clatters loudly when it meets the saucer, hot coffee sloshing out of its sides, slipping down to scold my pale, ink-stained hands. I wince inwardly, thinking that the smallest of sounds will break the robust chatter echoing throughout the shop. I continue to sip my drink unnoticed, and doddle mindlessly on the napkin stamped with the café’s logo. 

After observing customers slip in and out for about an hour or so, I push my long-finished coffee across the table, leaving a small tip behind before shrugging my coat back around my shoulders and venturing back out into the bustle of the street.

For a moment I just stand there. Stand right in the middle of the calamity and surge of people-traffic. People crash against me, muttering swears and curses as they go, but I barely even register their existence. My head is tipped back, and I gaze up at the sky. The clouds are swirling and mingling, forming a contrast against the vivid blue sky so beautifully that I envy the sky itself. I envy the freedom - the idea of everyone marvelling at me and telling their families about the beautiful cloud they saw today, or even the striking sunset that lit up their candle-light dinner dates. I secretly long for the same loving treatment of praise and wonder that the heavens above receive.

At this exact moment the time is nine forty-three. The air is cool and crisp. Two streets away the breeze picks up, causing an antediluvian wind chimes’ jingle to cascade down the street. Across Paris a dragonfly dances through the pantyhosed legs of the late widowed Mrs Benedict, as she weeps on the shoulder of her eldest son and her husband’s casket is lowered. And halfway across the world in the sunburnt country of Australia, a little boy named Augustus cries out for his mother after a nightmare filled dream state of closet dwelling monsters.

Suddenly, my thoughts are interrupted by the most wonderful thing that has ever graced my ears - the softest melody, accompanied by the sweetest of chords. The song seizes ahold of my heartstrings and pulls me towards its source like I am puppet, and the guitar the puppeteer. I blindly stumble my way forward and down the street, tumbling towards the beautiful sound, numb legs carrying me blindly. The tune progresses, building up but never faulting or failing, wrapping its musical arms around me to cacoon me in the beauty that matches my silence.

I finally reach the corner of Rue Valence and peer around, my dark hair failing to stay in place once again, shielding my face. Balanced atop an overturned milk crate is the most perfect person to match the most perfect music - a boy so beautiful I stumble backwards in a shallow attempt to catch my breath before I sneak a greedy glace back around the corner. My fingers scrape at the harsh, brick-clad wall of the local bookshop as I struggle to keep myself upright.

He is a dainty little thing, with dark, chestnut coloured hair grazing his shoulders. Nervous teeth nibble at a slender lip ring which is clipped to the bottom left side of his impeccable mouth. Sunlight dances over his flawless skin, his cheeks flushed pink with cold. He cradles his obviously well-loved guitar to his chest, playing with everything in him as he grins widely at passers-by, half singing soft-spoken thankyou’s as they toss their petty change into the guitar case that lays open at the grinning boy's feet.

“Merci,” he thanks, his voice seeming to smoulder in my ears. His fingerless-glove clad hands dancing smoothly across the frets as pale knees peek out from frayed holes in his dark denim jeans. His outfit his definitely inappropriate for the current weather of negative 2 degrees, and I resist the urge to go up to him and bundle the probably-freezing boy into my coat. However, I remain behind the corner, hiding in a desperate shame, not wanting such a beautiful person to so much as glance at me. The breeze tussles his hair in just the right way and the birds hum as if they are singing solely to him. The light from above shines down upon him as if he is an angel. 

 

Eventually, my heart begins to beat again, thudding recklessly loud against my ribs. And I am having hard time breathing, because I live in the world that is so dark and unstable. It is hard for things to be right when we live in a world so full of wrongs.

:X:

A gasp wracks its way shakily through my rattling chest. I gulp desperately at the icy air. A cold sweat coating my shaking frame. The bed sheet is bunched up around my waist. The ever-constant nightmares that run rampant around my skull making sure to defiantly taint my tortured mind once again, ruining the tiniest scrap of sleep that my insomnia allowed.

Tonight, though, was different; a single beam of gorgeous sunlight stabbing through the darkness in my head - a single beam of sunlight graced with the voice of the puppeteer who yanked upon my strings with chaste melodies and cupid-bow lips. The young busker had not left my mind since I saw him, almost as if he had followed me home in a non-palpable form.

After my encounter with the boy, I had stumbled my way home. It had become exceedingly difficult to snap my jaw shut, which had been flung open in utter shock at the sight of the gorgeous guitarist.

Walking through the door of my studio apartment, I fling myself down onto my bed, not even bothering to change out of my winter attire as I proceed to sink into the first blissful, uninterrupted warmth of sleep that I've seen for days.

I lay in bed for a few more silent moments, before finally dragging myself from the safe haven of warm dreams and shadowy night terrors. The ancient grandfather clock resting at the end of the dim hallway reads the pressing time of half-past seven. Needing to be at work by eight, I push all thoughts of the boy from my scattered mind and traipse into the cluttered - but nevertheless, welcoming - kitchenette. A few dirty dishes line the stainless steel sink while the fridge sits in the corner, humming to itself, covered in drawings, letters and bills.

I head straight for the jar of instant coffee; the need for caffeine is almost unbearable, flicking on the switch for the dull red jug as I went. The soft, familiar gurgle of the kettle breaks the enjoyable (yet somewhat lonesome) silence as I sway my hips to the tune that's bouncing around in in my head.

After guzzling down the bitter black drink, I begin the same, never-changing routine in record time. 

Like clockwork, I dress in nearly the same attire as yesterday, only swapping my sleek black tie for a somewhat fatter, scarlet number. I attempt to tame the raven locks that hang tangled and freshly scrubbed from the shower (which, in all honesty, hadn't happened in a very long time and probably deserved some kind of award for simply being within a 20 metre range of a shampoo bottle). I scowl at the man in the mirror, giving him the dirtiest look I can muster before I storm out of the door. Yanking on my coat, I sling my worn messengers bag, heavy with art supplies and comic books, over my shoulder and stalk out onto the streets.

The walk is short, the sun littering the open roads and grumbling communers guide my way until I am met with the familiar sight of Le Geant Des Beaux Arts. The plain red brick exterior of the tiny art supplies shop emitting a comforting glow. The windows are lined with displays of the latest watercolours and expensive-looking charcoal. The heavy, pale blue-stained glass doors dotted with small pieces of art work; rough sketches of staff members, watercolour paintings of the accustomed streets of Paris, the works.

Inside, the brass bell above my head tinkles as I push open the aforementioned door, stepping into the shop. Clay, oil paint and ink merge together to form a scent that I can only associate with the art supplies shop. Not unusually, I am met with a chorus of cheery "Hello"s and "Hey”s as opposed to the normal "Bonjour"s and "Salut"s due to the majority of Le Geant’s employees being emigrants, like myself.

After moving to Paris at just eleven with my Mother and younger Brother, I got a job here a few years later at eighteen. After three years, I can pretty much call the place my second home.

A soft jazz melody bleeds out of the well-used CD player which is currently perched precariously atop a teetering stack of sketchbooks, looking over the little shop from the front counter, wobbling in place every-so-often with a worrying creaking noise. The old, worn CD inside of the paint-spattered player produces a patchy, crackling number, probably a French one that I do not recognise. For a few moments, I simply balance upon the desk; eavesdropping on my fellow co-workers who are eagerly discussing the latest news and gossip from around the shop. Jessamina and Augustus had slept together in the back of the delivery truck, William and Luc are set to be wed and Darvelle - our ever-so slightly neurotic manager - had just received the sixth DUI of the month.

The store is mostly empty at the moment, the odd university student poking around the sales boxes here and there, so I remain where I am - perched lightly upon the front counter.

My thoughts turn to the boy with the guitar and his heart-achingly beautiful melodies. Suddenly, my face feels... odd... it feels rather taught. I reach up hesitantly and with tentative fingers, and brush softly across my lips, a touch that is barely there. I realize that I am smiling - something that I feel I have not done in one hell of a long time. I swing my dangling legs back and forth, somewhat giddy with my new-found revelation.

The pop-flick of my old, silver Zippo lighter sounds quietly as I sit with my elbow resting upon my knee, keenly gulping down lungfuls of my chosen poison.

 

I sit. I wonder.

 

My skull is a swirling jumble of mismatched thoughts and dreams. The sharp wind batters restlessly at the windows and the fluorescent lights make my eyes ache. I think about my brother Mikey; I realize how much I miss him. He had gone back to New Jersey about a year ago. I long to hold my baby brother in my arms, to watch Schlock Horror flicks on our crappy little VHS with him until dawn like we did all those years ago. I crave the frantic, needy desire for human contact.

One particular thought leaps out at me from the tangled mass that is currently my mind. For the first time in my seemingly-doleful life, I want to make a difference. I want to make someone smile. I want to learn how to smile. I want to get better. I want to gaze at the stars and see something beautiful. I want a bubble of laughter to emerge freely from my dry, chapped lips. I want to feel soft blades of green grass beneath my feet, squeezing in-between my toes, folding under my footsteps. I want to inhale the intoxicating smell of fresh roses. I want to sketch the setting sun, to paint it in glorious watercolours and acrylics. I want to breathe a breath of pure, untainted fresh air. 

I, Gerard Arthur Way, want to fucking live.

**Author's Note:**

> Also sorry for the formatting half way through. Fucking Archive Of Our Own hates me...
> 
> WL xx


End file.
